


The Last Elf

by wynniethepooh



Category: Glee, Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Klaine AU Fridays, M/M, Middle Earth!Klaine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynniethepooh/pseuds/wynniethepooh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the dawning of the fourth age, and the elves have left Rivendell. All but one. Kurt is alone and desperate to find help from his own kind, but he cannot make it to Minas Tirith alone.<br/>In the Shire, the third cousin, four times removed of the legendary Samwise Gamgee is desperately seeking an adventure. With all his being he longs to participate in a quest that will send his blood thrumming. When the last elf knocks on his door, it seems like his dreams might become a reality.<br/>But his cousin Sam had always told him: 'Sometimes adventures aren't fair. Sometimes you lose things you really wish you hadn't.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Leaving

**Author's Note:**

> Recently, I went to view the Hobbit, and only just before, watched all three Lord of the Rings movies, and after returning back to the world of men, I desperately searched for an avenue to re-enter Middle Earth. When I thought of a Klaine AU, I realised inkystars and the crew over at Klaine AU Fridays had beaten me too it, and so this piece was born! I am very excited about this story and what is to come in it! I hope you enjoy!

It was at the dawning of the fourth age that the last of the high elves left Middle Earth. It was a slow process, as the city of Rivendell was cleared of its relics and histories and the belongings of the elves stored in the ships that would take them back to their homeland. Those who had been injured in the War of the Rings were to be healed before the leaving, as per the rulings of Lord Elrond and Galadriel.

However, nothing is as simple as it first appears. The war left many of the elves wounded, and the care required for the sheer number of patients became too much for the healers to handle. The more able patients were forced to become self-reliant, and the effort to leave Middle Earth became the highest priority. It was in this way, that the young elf, Kurt, came to find himself in Rivendell, alone.

It was the morning before the leaving, and his wounds had yet to heal. A large gash across his stomach had festered without the care which would usually have been indebted to him, and the healers at his ward had been hesitant to allow him admittance to the ships. As he slipped into consciousness, he could hear their discussion, despite their hushed tones. 

‘He is not well enough,’ the elder healer spoke, her voice high and stately, though she held the same underlying despair that many of the healers did, especially in these troubled times. ‘His wounds are raw with infection. He will spread his diseases to the other wounded if we do not isolate him, and there is no place to do so on the ships.’

The young elf that had been by his bedside most days when he had awoken tried to argue in his favour. ‘He is only young. He has never seen our homeland, but he fought bravely in the War of the Rings. He does not deserve to be left behind.’

‘We do not deserve to suffer for his misfortunes. Let him live this ordeal on his own.’

The young elf was insistent. ‘Surely, our magic can heal him. We have healed the likes before.’

‘Yes,’ the elder replied. ‘With time and care, neither of which we can afford. To protect the others, we must leave him behind.’

It was at this point that Kurt himself had tried to object, but his voice was too weak and every movement jarred his torso, pulling at the tight stitches and tearing skin that was already thin. If what the elder was saying was true, he would die from mortal wounds. Wounds which no elf should die from, not with the powers of healing that the elves of Rivendell possessed. It was a cruel fate. But even as he tried to argue, he could feel consciousness slipping away from him. 

He was no high elven lord, nor from a prestigious family. He was an elf warrior, and that was all he had known all his life. The feel of his bow beneath his hands, the press of earth beneath his feet and the cry of the commander as the order was given. He had been taught to obey, and to fight, and that was what he had done, until the knife slid beneath his armor, prising the pieces of elven metal apart in a way that he had never experienced. And then his skin was being slit, and his muscles and tissue and the dull ache that had never left him since. But yet still, the worst had come in the time of waiting, when fever overcame him and he lost control of motor and bowel. His wound would never heal easily. 

She was right, in a way, the elder healer. He would be a burden upon the fleet, another body with no chance of survival. Another mouth to feed, another patient to dress. And he was no one of importance.

When he awoke, they had gone, and Rivendell was empty.

* * *

His recovery came slowly and in long months. They had left him with food within easy reach, but soon, the water ran out, and he had to leave his pallet to reach the river. Each step tore at his stitches and even the cool stream did nothing to calm the still burning fever. He finally fell at the steps of the stream, all the _lembas_ bread he could carry in his hands, and waited there, in all weathers, until his strength could recover, drinking of the river when required and eating his fill slowly, so as not to make himself ill.

This positioned he maintained for over a week, until the fever slowly passed and the skin beneath his stitches slowly began to knit together again. Small movements became key to his existence, lifting him from the water to the steps and back again, though each still wrenched at his wounds and his insides screamed with the pain of it. They had left him with no relief to the pain save to bite his own lip and fingers, and watch the blood well. 

The river, perhaps, may have held protective qualities over him, though he could never be sure. He had been told as a child that drinking from the Bruinen river’s stream, that ran through Rivendell, would provide the elf who did so with heightened awareness of self. He did not know if this allowed his wounds to heal at any faster pace, but he kept to the stone hewn banks of the river, and let it provide for him, as it surely did.

At long last, Kurt’s strength returned to him. It came slowly, beginning in being able to drag himself more efficiently across the stone, to being able to sit; and all at once it seemed as if he could stand upon the steps, though he could not bend at the middle, where the stitches held him together. But even slower than his strength was the return of his flexibility, and the nimble qualities that came naturally to all elves. With time, he began being able to bend, first at the knees, then at the hips, and then finally to hold his weight with only the balls of his feet, a skill which he had poorly missed, though never valued before it had been lost.

When he was finally able to perform the basic movements of his race, those with which he had become accustomed at a young age, he took to exploring the city. He went in search of anything that may have been left behind; to aid his life in Middle-Earth or otherwise. But all of his searches came out fruitless, save for the finding of a small, dagger-like knife; and he returned to the edge of the stream to eat and drink each day until the morning he decided to remove his stitches.

That day, he relocated himself back to the infirmary, bringing with him jugs of the cool river water and his knife. His skin had sealed over the shimmering thread, and he placed a wad of the blanket that had been left on him during his original slumber between his teeth in a hope to dull the pain. As he sliced carefully into the thread, he bit down hard on the material, and he did not utter a sound. With that success, he promised himself he would not feel pain again; not physically, nor of the mental sort. He would not allow himself that luxury.

When the thread was removed and the last drops of glimmering red blood were washed clean from his skin, he walked once again to the river, examining his scar in the reflection of the water. It crossed the line of his stomach, though the line was thin, and if he turned out of the light, it was hardly visible at all. Overall, he looked almost well again, though his long tawny hair was caught in mats and his face seemed lined with age he had not had before the war, and he should not have had now.

He used his fingers to pry apart the tangles of his hair until it hung straight down his back, though the shine it had once held was gone. The clothes he wore seemed dirty, though he had done nothing to dirty them. They had collected the dust of his days by the river, it had seemed, and the stark white material of the infirmary uniform had dulled to a murky grey. He pulled off his shirt and tried to wash it in the river, scrubbing it back and forth with his hands, but when he pulled it back over his head, it only cooled his skin; it did not return to its original colour. 

Kurt ate a mouthful of the _lembas_ bread and placed the rest inside the pocket of his pants for safekeeping. There was nothing in Rivendell for him now. It was a sanctuary, yes, but there was nothing remaining here save the river and a place to sleep without fear of attack. Although, if they had won the war, perhaps fear of attack outside the city walls would be unfounded. 

He picked his knife up off the floor and tucked it into his belt before making his way to the heavy stone doors of the city and out.


	2. A Restless Hobbit

In the west-most province of the Shire, only half a days walk from Hobbiton, in a small house built above ground, as the land of that quarter required, lived a shire-hobbit of moderate wealth and large heart. He lived with his mother and father, uncle, cousins, two brothers and three sisters, of whom he wished he was less fond, for all the dinner they would good-naturedly steal from his plate when he wasn’t looking. 

He was the oldest of his generation in the home, almost a full grown hobbit, and he was ready for adventure. He was the third cousin, four times removed, of the renowned Samwise Gamgee and if anyone deserved to go on adventure, it was him. 

The Anderson family of hobbits were surely not well off, nor were they the most closely connected family to the Gamgee’s but it was one connection that Blaine could not let die. It gave him hope that one day, hobbit though he was, he would be able to achieve something great. 

It was Sam himself who had told Blaine about their adventures. Many of the other hobbits in the Shire didn’t want anything to do with the adventures of the Fellowship of the Ring, especially not since Frodo Baggins and his uncle had left the Shire without holding a farewell party. The adventures they had been on where just another of the many things that well-respecting hobbits need not know about; although they were exciting and daring, and showed greats feat of courage, they could only tempt young hobbits into leaving the Shire and exploring Middle-Earth for their own, and then what would become of the countryside, when the young sons weren’t there to till the land.

But Blaine didn’t let that stop him. Every time he had to go into Hobbiton to buy supplies his father and uncle did not hunt and his mother and aunts did not grow, he would stop the night and for a few meals at Sam’s house, with his wife and children, who would call Blaine “uncle” and run circles around him while he happily tried to keep up. And then, while the children slept, Sam would tell him stories.

Blaine’s father didn’t like hearing about the stories. He thought Blaine should be staying to help him with the land. But he had two brothers for that, and ten cousins that could herd sheep as well as he; most days, father let little Andwise stay home, though he begged and begged to go to, and could perform as well as the older boys. Without Blaine, they could manage, and well enough. 

And, Blaine thought, it was his family right as a relative of Samwise Gamgee to go on an adventure. 

He was, however, yet to figure out what his adventure would be. Now that King Elessar was on the throne, Middle Earth was relatively at peace, and there was no quests to be had, or at least none that wanderers came by Hobbiton seeking help for. Sometimes, in his spare time, he would write out advertisements and place them on the meeting board. They would read:

_Hobbit available for going on an adventure.  
_ _Call at Bag End, Gardner Residence.  
_ _Ask for Blaine._

He was hoping that using Sam’s home, with the famous Baggins name, as his address would encourage travelers to ask for his assistance, though whenever he asked Sam if he’d heard anything from anyone, the older hobbit only laughed at him and smiled.

* * *

It was a midsummer day and Blaine’s father had sent him into town to buy butter and cheeses from the Boffin’s dairy. The sun was bright and high in the sky by the time he reached town, and his pockets were heavy with the coin he needed to pay for the goods. He had missed second breakfast in his haste to leave for the town, and forgotten to take a roll or pastry with him for the journey; as such, he was famished. 

The door to Bag End was open when he climbed the hill. Little Pippin was running in the yard and his oldest sister Elanor was watching from the doorway. 

‘Hello, Pippin!’ Blaine called as he ran up the path, grinning. ‘Good morning!’

‘Good morning, Blaine!’ Tom returned to him, and Elanor gave him a small wave as he skidded to a stop at the door. 

‘Is Sam home?’ Blaine asked. ‘Has anyone come a’calling?' 

‘Not anyone for you,’ Elanor laughed. ‘Only some more Bagginses wanting to check Father’s claim for Bag End. And they’re gone again now. When they see Uncle Frodo’s letter they know better than to fight Father for the house or the things.’ She tossed a hand over one shoulder. ‘Father is in the kitchen.’

‘Lunch!’ Blaine grinned. ‘Just what I was about to ask for!’

‘Well, go get it!’

He slipped into the house behind Elanor and slid across the slick floor through into the kitchen. ‘Sam!’

‘Blaine!’ The older hobbit was chopping onions and carrots on a large wooden board. With a flick, he rinsed the knife under the sink and placed it back into it’s holder beside the window. ‘What can I help you with today?’

‘Have you any lunch to spare? I left home before second breakfast and didn’t pack a snack.’

‘No snack? How did your stomach survive?’ Samwise grinned a wide grin that he reserved for Blaine and his children, the sort of smile that said, _you amuse me, but I can see the greatness in you._ Or at least, that was what Blaine hoped it said. If Sam didn’t think he had great things in him, no traveler ever would.

‘With difficulty,’ Blaine replied. He reached out and took the carrot end that Sam offered him. ‘Elanor says there’s been no visitors for me?’

‘No, no visitors for you, young Blaine.’ Samwise pulled a heavy pot from the cupboard below the sink and placed it on the stove, filling it with broth from the cooler box. A splash of salt and pepper and then he added the onions and carrots. ‘I’m sorry, lad, but as I said last month, with King Elessar on the throne, there’s not too many quests to be had.’

‘There has to be something!’ Blaine pulled the soup ladle down from it’s hook on the ceiling and handed it to Sam. ‘It’s not fair that you got to go on an adventure and I don’t!’ He bit his lip. He didn’t mean to say that. He was not a petulant child. He was in his tweens. He was old enough to know when to hold his tongue, but sometimes, especially when talking about adventure, he forgot to keep his thoughts in check. ‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ he said quickly.

‘Apology accepted, Blaine.’ He stirred the soup carefully, pulling herbs from jars beside the window. He held them in his hands for a moment, selecting carefully, then threw them into the pot. ‘You know, sometimes adventures aren’t fair either.’ He stirred the pot once more, then placed the ladle carefully in the spoon holder and pushed the lid onto the pot. ‘Sometimes you lose things you really wish you hadn’t.’

Sam moved towards the larder, pulling out loaves of bread on heavy wooden boards. Butter and jam came next, out of the large cooler box. He deftly cut the bread and handed Blaine a thick slice to spread as he would. His eyes were dark, and Blaine felt guilty for bringing up Sam’s past. 

‘Call the children for lunch, will you, young Blaine?’ Sam asked, and Blaine nodded emphatically, eager to relieve the tension that had settled like fat on the top of the milk. He stepped to the doorway, poking his head out through the entrance and calling, ‘Lunch is ready!’ 

They were words common and fond to any hobbit, and the young Gardner’s were no exception. The children sprang to attention, large feet carrying them to the door of their home and straight into the kitchen, where they held out their hands for bread and jam. Their small fingers soon became sticky with the preserve, but after Blaine had finished his own portion, he helped each of the small children up to the sink in order to wash their hands. In only minutes it was over, each child returning to their own game, now with full stomachs. Elanor, alone, remained with her father and Blaine in the kitchen. 

‘Well,’ Blaine said softly. ‘Now that you have fed me so well, I must head to the dairy and then back home, I dare say.’ 

Elanor shook her head at him. ‘No, stay for dinner, please. Stay the night, and begin your journey afresh in the morning.’

He looked quickly at Sam, at the still dark look in his eyes, that had only lightened briefly as the kitchen had filled before puttering back into darkness.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, Elanor, but I must head home. Father and Mother were after the cheeses for supper, and if I leave now, I should make it home before sundown.’ He gave her a smile, as bright as he could muster. ‘Thank you, Elanor. And thank you, Sam, for the lunch.’ The elder hobbit glanced in his direction with half a wave, but did not speak and did not smile. Blaine turned to the door. ‘Good afternoon.’

And he stepped into afternoon sunlight, with a full stomach, but no more full in his heart.


	3. To Bree

Kurt travelled alone, avoiding townships and settlements. He kept to small tracks that wound their way through trees and forest. He had, on the surface, no sure route to any definitive sort of destination, but a part of him knew where he was headed. He was the last of the elves at Rivendell - that, he had been sure of when he left the fortress city. But he was not the only remaining elf in Middle Earth. There were still the wood elves, who were born of this land, and would not leave it. And even closer to his kin was the elf queen Arwen. She, like him, had been left behind by their race, though her isolation had been of choice, unlike his own. If he could find her, maybe she could give him an insight into what his future could hold in Middle Earth.

They had given him enough of the _lembas_ bread to survive him three months, but his slow recovery had meant that only two weeks of traveling could be done without the need of extra sustenance. The towns called to him, welcoming him with their breads and fruits, and soon, he would have to submit to their pleas. 

His trousers were becoming stained with dirt and grit; each night he slept on the hard ground, his body did not suffer for it, but his clothes did. He wished to be rid of them, to be able to slide into something that did not stand out so starkly against his backdrop. Dark pants, a leather vest and a plain cotton shirt would allow him the freedom to walk among men. He would be able to speak less obviously of _elf._

It was a small town just west of the Last Bridge where he decided to settle for a night. The small sign on the road read _Dnarfil,_ though Kurt had never heard of the name before. The town itself was hard to differentiate from it’s landscape; a few small wooden farmhouses and land tilled with what seemed like potatoes or some other buried crop. Towards what must be the centre of the village were two buildings, scarce larger than the farm houses, but with no worked land surrounding them. They seemed to be a smithy and a store. Beside these was a stone dwelling, much larger than the rest. A small sign hung above the door: _Smoking Inn._

As Kurt approached it, a man stumbled out of the doorway, pants around his ankles. Another man stood and watched him, as the drunkard fumbled to gather his trousers and pull them up his fat hairy legs. ‘And don’t try to piss in my inn again!’ the man by the door said, and slammed the door shut tight. 

Kurt watched and waited as the man righted himself on shaky legs, pulled his trousers back up to his waist and tied them with his rope belt. He glanced around himself, as if searching for something, but the ground was empty all about, and the elf had hidden himself well. The man, finding nothing and especially not the item he was looking for, gave an irritated huff and then stepped away into the night. 

Not until he was long gone did Kurt creep to the door of the inn, knocking on it clearly with his slender fist. It took long moments for the inn keeper to open the door, and Kurt could hear his heavy footsteps on the wooden floor until he drew back the door and motioned at his new guest. 

‘Well?’

‘I would like a room for the night, if you will. I have no silver to pay my way, but my services are available to you as you wish them.’

The man sneered, pulling at the braces that held up his trousers. ‘An’ what services would they be?’

‘I have some ability to read fortunes, and heal the weak.’ It was not a lie, though it did bend the truth. Like all elves, he was perceptive; enough so that signs in a persons stance and demeanor could hold glimpses of a possible future. Similarly, he was skilled with a needle and thread, and as his mother had often told him: a man needs only the thought of healing to be at once healed.

The innkeeper frowned, but did not turn Kurt away. ‘My son has been sufferin’ from the woes these past three weeks and my wife can’t draw him from it. I’ll give you food and shelter if you break him from his stupor righ’ now.’ Kurt nodded solemnly, and followed the innkeeper inside. 

The inn itself was warm, though not cosy; the men of the village populated within the heat of its walls, tankards of mulled wine in double handed grips. They splayed across tables, fat bellies spread beneath them as they gossiped and yelled. By the fire, a tall man played out a tune on a flute, though no one danced, and only a few hummed along to the melody.

Kurt stepped between the tables carefully, unwilling to have any drink spill onto his clothes or skin. The innkeeper stopped at the far wall, pushing open a door that lead onto a small room, only a dozen feet wide in either direction. A bed was the only object in the room, and there were no windows. A tallow candle sat on the floor beside the bed. The innkeeper reached for a torch that sat in a bracket in the main room of the inn and lit the candle from it.

‘Put your things in here. This’ll be your place for th’night.’

Kurt made no motion to move, and the innkeeper looked at him before shrugging his shoulders dismissively. He had no belongings to leave. ‘Come with me. M’ wife’s with the boy.’

The door was behind the bar, but the innkeeper led Kurt through, knocking a patron about the ears as he began to beg for just one more mug of ale. The room Kurt had been assigned seemed dark, but the innkeeper’s own quarters were darker, lit only by the fire that roared in the hearth. It sent flickering light against the walls, and the room smelt of the smoke, though the chimney sent most upwards. 

Beside the fire, the innkeeper’s wife sat, her legs curled beneath her as she cradled her son’s head in her lap. The boy moaned, a pitiful sound that echoed throughout the room. ‘I do not wish to live,’ he whispered through cracked lips, and his gums split with the movement, bright red blood welling against his yellowed teeth. He was young, perhaps approaching maturity, but too young to be anything more than an apprentice. The tan on his forearms and the scars across his palms lead Kurt to believe he was an apprentice smithy. 

‘Tell the elf what’s wrong,’ the innkeeper demanded of his son. The boy reached out his hands in Kurt’s direction, beckoning him forward. 

‘I do not wish to live,’ he repeated again. Sweat pooled on his brow, and his eyes darted, unable to settle on any object. ‘The smithy deems my hands unfit to work after I knocked the anvil over and crushed my fingers. I keep shaking an’ my hands won’t hold the steel.’ He held the offending objects above his face, turning them this way and that. The fingers did not appear to be damaged, and his movement was not limited, but Kurt could see the quiver in them. 

He knelt beside the boy, took his hands between his own. The innkeeper’s wife watched on with wide eyes, her fear palpable, but she did not speak up against the elf.

‘What is your name?’ Kurt asked gently. 

The boy moaned, and spoke in a breathy whisper. ‘ _Oswin._ ’

‘Oswin,’ the elf echoed. ‘When did the accident happen?’ He pressed his fingers into the flesh of the boys palm, worked his fingers back and forth. There was no trick to this kind of healing. It was all about the mind, and the patients own beliefs. 

‘Three weeks ago,’ the mother replied for the boy. ‘The fingers healed, but the shake didn’t.’

Kurt straightened out the boys fingers, ran his nails carefully along each one. ‘I can see where the fault is,’ he murmured after a moment. ‘I will do my best.’ He closed his eyes shut tight, feigned concentration. When he look at the boy once again, his eyes were open in joy. 

‘They don’ shake!’ he exclaimed. He held his hands above his face, turned them backwards and forwards. There was no tremor. ‘I can still be a smithy! Ma!’ The boy twisted off the floor, capturing his mother in a bright kiss to her cheek, and standing quickly to shake his father’s hand.

‘Thank the elf, boy,’ the innkeeper said gently. ‘For his trouble.’

Oswin turned to Kurt and held out his hand; he took it cautiously. ‘Thank you,’ the newly healed boy said. ‘You’ve saved me future.’

Kurt nodded. ‘Your father has given me a place to stay in return. For that I am thankful.’ He backed away slowly, let the innkeeper and his wife form a tight circle around their son. He took the door handle in his hand without turning away from the family, then opened the door and slipped outside, round the bar and back to his room.

The tallow candle was still burning and by its light he stripped out of his trousers and shirt, placed the dagger beneath his lumpy pillow and settled down for the night, blowing out the candle with a gentle puff of breath.

* * *

Kurt woke the next morning at sun-break. No light entered the room, but his body knew to wake, and he dressed silently, listening for sounds from the inn. Already, there were people up and moving, and when he opened the door, he saw the innkeeper carrying fried sausages and a hunk of soft cheese into the hall. 

The innkeeper’s eyes fell to rest on Kurt, and he motioned for him to approach. The food, it appeared, was for him, and he took it gratefully. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured.

He could hear a bustle of noise outside the main door, and then a man was pushing through, a small girl held in his hands. Her head rolled back, unable to support itself, and she appeared by all means to be unconscious. The man brought her to Kurt’s table as he sat and stared.

‘My daughter,’ the man said. ‘She will not wake.’ The girl was breathing, though shallowly, but Kurt could not determine the cause of her illness. 

‘I cannot-’

‘We will give you clothing and food for your travels if you will help us.’

He had no time for this, nor the ability to heal this girl, but the goods the man promised would help him well on his journey, and he had no other form of payment.

‘I will try,’ he said finally, and placed his hands on the girls forehead. She was cool - unnaturally so - and as he pressed his fingers into her scalp, massaging the skin, she showed no reaction of his presence. Carefully, he prodded his fingernail into both her hands, then her knee, but no reaction came from her body. 

‘How did this occur?’ he asked, looking up at the man who carried her. 

‘We don’t know,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘One night she went to bed, not a care in the world. When she didn’ rouse the next morning, her brother went to wake her, but she wouldn’t move. She’s been like this ever since.’

Kurt ran his thumb along the child’s palm, pressing into the lines that marked her life and fortunes. ‘Make a poultice,’ he said finally, drawing from his memories of the infirmary. ‘Use comfrey, ginger and witch hazel, and spread the paste across her brow. Apply the salve every morning and night, and do not wash it off for at least a quarter of the day. Soon, she will wake.’ He only hoped he was accurate. The poultice may do nothing, but the girl seemed to have no injuries, and perhaps time would cure her.

‘Thank you, sir,’ the man said, nodding and bowing. He gestured to his wife to bring over a basket of breads and fruits, and another of folded cloth. Kurt took the gifts and admired each in turn, as was due. When the family had turned away, he returned to his breakfast, taking large mouthfuls. He could not be rid of this place sooner.

He took the gifts back into his room, laying out the clothes on the bed. A new pair of trousers, dark in colour, two cotton shirts, and a dark vest, embroidered with silver thread. Clothes which would not mark him immediately as elf. 

But with his hair so long and fine, he would not be free of the burden of his race. More men would flock to him, desperate for him to heal their broken child or mother. Taking his knife, he hacked at his hair, cutting off the long lengths and laying them gently on the floor. He took his time then, settling down in front of them and twisting the long lengths into plaits. When he was finished, he removed his old clothes, replaced them with the new and used his old shirt to wrap his hair in a neat bundle. This bundle he tied into a parcel with his trousers and slung it over his shoulder. He carried the food in its basket, and checked twice that his knife had been returned to its sheath.

Then, when all his small number of belongings were gathered, he crept out of the room. He caught the eye of the innkeeper, who approached him cautiously. 

‘Where is the nearest city?’ he asked, shifting the basket in his arms.

‘Bree is the nearest, to the west. If you follow the road, you will reach there. God speed.’ The man ducked his head in respect, and let Kurt pass, exiting the inn. Men were crowding around the inn, but none stopped him, and he walked out of the town, not looking back, and not stopping as a small boy ran across his path. He could not provide for the health needs of a small town. The only thing he could do was keep walking, and keep searching.


	4. A Message from Sam

The inn at Bree, the _Prancing Pony,_ was crowded when Kurt stepped through the gate. It was only mid afternoon, but already men were crowding around the bar; they pressed mugs of ale together in enthusiasm, drank deep and heartily, and roared laughter at their friend’s jokes. 

No man looked up as Kurt approached the bar, not even the bartender. He was too occupied with wiping down grimy cups and discussing the new King Elessar with a short man, barely taller than Kurt’s hip, though his position on a high stool gave him some semblance of height. The patron swung his large and hairy feet, bare against the wood of the stool. 

‘I only hope he doesn’t try and make the Shire follow his rules,’ the small man said. ‘We don’t need a King to tell us what to do. We’re a peaceful folk, and we do know harm to his kingdom.’

‘Here, here!’ the publican agreed with a grin. ‘You little hobbits don’ need no ruling by them kings of men.’

‘He’s king of all Middle Earth, I heard,’ the small man - he must be a hobbit, as the publican had said - shared. ‘He’s allied the kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor, and the Shire is very close to Arnor. We could be next. We don’t trust those foreigners in the Shire.’

The hobbit slid down off his stool, returning to his normal stature and walked towards the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Cliff?’ he asked.

‘Bright and early as usual, and bring some of tha’ cheese you hobbits love so much, Olo.’ 

The little hobbit nodded and exited the inn. The bartender, Cliff, turned to Kurt with wary eyes. ‘Yes?’

‘A drink of water for a wary traveller?’ Kurt asked, raising the corner of his lip in what he hoped was a friendly smile. He had not stopped to rest since he had left Dnarfil, though two nights had passed. The basket of food he had been given was all gone now, and he longed to sleep for just a few hours, but each time he stopped sleep would not come; it took only minutes for him to give up the cause and rise again to keep walking.

The bartender gave him a sideways glance and filled the mug he was holding with ale. 

‘No water?’ Kurt asked.

‘No water.’ He took the mug carefully and sipped only the slightest of the beverage. It was cold and refreshing, though the taste was bitter and did not persuade him to drink more. He sat the mug down.

‘I was also looking for a guide,’ he said. ‘Do you know of any man who can take me to Minas Tirith?’

The bartender, for the first time since talking with the hobbit, grinned. ‘I know just the man for the job.’

* * *

Blaine pulled the tiller, turning up the soil as his younger brother Caibron ran behind, dropping the tomato seeds for their new crop into the soil and kicking dirt over them with his toe. It was heavy work, but Andwise was too young to help them, and their sisters stayed at the house helping their mother cook. In the field next door, their cousins Otha and Tolman were harvesting the potatoes into a large hessian sack.

‘Doing fine, Caibron?’ Blaine called out over his shoulder as he pulled the heavy tiller. 

‘Yes, Blaine!’ the younger hobbit replied with enthusiasm. It was the first year Caibron had been allowed to help in the fields; last year he had been kept back with Andwise. They had only one more row to till and plant, and then they would be allowed to return home for afternoon tea. 

They reached the end of the row with haste, Caibron taking extra care on the last seed. He bent over to carefully cover the seed with soil and patted it down gently; then he stood up and grinned at Blaine, who was setting down the tiller beside the fence. ‘Mother was making scones for afternoon tea, wasn’t she?’

Blaine did not reply, and instead motioned for his brother to follow him down the track to the farmhouse. Their oldest sister Celandine, younger than Blaine, but older than Caibron, was sitting on the stool outside the house with baby Lily on her lap. Lily was only a cousin, but as in most hobbit families, Blaine and his brothers and sisters treated their cousins as if they were no further apart in blood than each other. 

‘Scones?’ Caibron asked impatiently and Celandine nodded. 

‘Will you bring some out to me, little brother? Or send one of the other girls out with our share?’

The whole family had crowded around the kitchen. They were a smaller family than Sam’s up in Hobbiton, especially if you took to account the fact they were really two families. After the death of his wife in childbirth, Blaine’s uncle Madoc had brought his family to live at his sisters farm and they had become a large family since. 

Uncle Madoc was handing out scones, hot and steaming. Butter and jam and cream were loud out on the table, the same butter that Blaine had been sent to the town to fetch those few days past. Little hands reached for knives and older hands claimed them, buttering their scones for the young ones and handing back their afternoon tea. 

By the window, Blaine’s mother was pouring tea from two large jugs. ‘Camomile or breakfast?’ she asked Blaine as he passed. 

‘Camomile, please, ma.’ She handed him a cup and he took it, careful not to spill it as little Posco and Griffin spun past him, Andwise close behind. 

‘Those little boys will be the death of my kitchen,’ his mother exclaimed as they nearly knocked down her flower pot. ‘I swear you and Caibron were never this boisterous.’

‘You remember us falsely, mother,’ Blaine grinned. ‘Though it is truth we were not the largest at fault. The girls made more of a mess than us boys.’

She smiled at him, a smile that spoke of the memories of wickedness past, the sort of wickedness that comes from being a child and being painfully annoying to your forebears, though still, throughout, being loved. ‘It is true, and they shall repent every day.’

Estella, a true sister of Blaine’s, who was younger than Celandine, and younger still than Caibron, but considerably older than Andwise, said, in a voice laced with mock hurt, ‘We were darlings.’ She pulled her little sister Hanna, the youngest of all Blaine’s sisters and still yet older than Andwise into a tight grip. ‘Even little Hanna.’

Hanna, who was very fond of scones and jam, said around her snack, ‘This is true, mother!’ It came out considerably less coherent. 

As Blaine took a seat in their small sitting room, Uncle Madoc joined him, sitting down opposite in the big wide settee and taking up the middle of it, leaving only enough room for two small hobbits on either side. These spaces were quickly filled by his sons, Tom and Griffin, and the youngest, Posco, climbed onto his knee, though he was too young to participate much in the conversation.

‘I heard you went up to Sam’s the other day, Blaine,’ his Uncle said, though not unkindly. ‘It is foolish of you to think so much of adventure. You have some Took in you, I must admit, but there were hopes it would not affect one of our brood.’

Blaine finished his mouthful before speaking. ‘You’re wrong, Uncle. ‘Tis not foolish to wish to leave the Shire. You only think so because you have never done it, and you feel you may be soon too old to ever try.’

‘Too true, too true,’ little Posco agreed, though not because his opinion aligned with Blaine’s, but because these were his favorite words. Blaine’s Uncle did not hush him, but he did not change his mind. ‘My stance is final, and I would wish you would stop pretending something marvelous and unexpected would happen to you,’ he said.

It was then that an unexpected knocking came at the door. It was strange for two reasons: the first and foremost being there was no guest that the hobbits were aware of who may be coming to tea, and the second, because no self-respecting hobbit knocked so loudly or with such urgency.

Blaine stood up at once, moving towards the door as fast as his legs would carry him without running, and opened it. On the threshold stood Elanor, her hand poised as if to knock again. ‘Blaine!’ she said suddenly upon seeing him.

‘Elanor!’ Her hair was tangled, and her breath came in heaving pants. ‘Have you been walking all day?’

‘Running!’ she exclaimed. Her hands moved about the air as if she had something to say but could not say it fast enough. She took in a deep breath, and said all at once, ‘A man came knocking on father’s door asking for you! He wants you to be his guide on an adventure!’


	5. A Guide To Minas Tirith

It was hard for Blaine to catch his breath as he and Elanor ran up the road to Hobbiton. They had to be at Bag End by nightfall, he had decided, though nothing determined the time frame save his own sense of duty. 

He had gathered his things quickly, a pack of all the food he dared take, skins filled with water, and a blanket to stave off the cold nights. Sam had always told him a blanket and some water was invaluable on an adventure. He had also said goodbye to his father and uncle but both only gave him haughty looks as if to ask why their young boy would ever consider leaving the Shire on an adventure. His mother sobbed as he hugged her, but not one of his siblings said a word. The only motion from any of them save wide gazes that spoke of fear and awe, was a small wave from Caibron. At the door he had called out, ‘I am going!’ and his mother had replied, ‘Good luck!’ but no other member of his family had spoken. They had left immediately.

He normally took the whole morning to travel this road, though he never rushed. It was a nice walk, with good scenery and there was never any haste besides the assurance of a good meal at the end. That day, he and Elanor walked fast, paying no attention to either side of the road. They spoke only the barest of words, each initiated by Elanor and quickly finished by Blaine. He was too caught up in his own thinking and the mysterious stranger at Bag End who was waiting for him to discuss the weather or the last meal with Elanor. 

The sun was falling just below the horizon when they approached hobbiton. The town was still busy, bustling with fathers returning from their day of work, and children running home for dinner, but slowly the streets thinned out and as they reached Bag End, there was not a soul left in sight.

‘This is it,’ Elanor said softly. ‘The beginning of your adventure.’

‘Yes,’ Blaine replied. 

‘Have you any experience being a guide? Do you know what to do?’

Blaine turned his head to catch her eye, dark and curious. ‘I’m sure I’ll figure it out.’

Elanor opened the door and pushed through, Blaine close at her heels. Sam was in the living room, his wife beside him as their children piled on the carpet. In the rocking chair on the other side of the fire sat the stranger. 

He wore a cotton shirt and a dark embroidered vest, and loose pants that tightened at his thin waist with a piece of cord. Beside the chair he had placed his belongings, though they were nothing more than a bundle of clothing. His dark hair was cut short and he watched the Gardner children with eyes that seemed playful, if you removed their haunted exterior. He was too large for the chair, that was plain to see, but it was the largest chair in the room, and the most comfortable, and he had pulled his long limbs into the most comfortable position until his legs were bent up and his arms rested on his knees.

‘Good evening,’ Blaine said to the room at large, trying desperately to hide the quiver of excitement in his voice. 

Sam nodded to him, and motioned for him to sit down. There was no spare seat, but Elanor raced into the kitchen and drew out a dining chair for him to sit on. The old worn seat cushion felt comfortable and familiar under Blaine’s fingers.

‘Kurt,’ Sam said slowly, motioning to the stranger in the rocking chair. ‘This is Blaine, my young cousin. He is the one who has been advertising at Bree and around Hobbiton.’

The stranger stood then, stooping over in the little hobbit hole. He was impossibly tall, towering over Blaine, but he held out his hand, and the young hobbit shook it. ‘They told me you could guide me to Minas Tirith.’

‘Have you not been there before?’ Blaine asked. ‘You being a big person and all. Don’t you all go a-traveling?’

Kurt sat back down in the armchair, moving both left and right until he found a comfortable position once more, though this time his feet were stretched out in front of him. He tucked his hair behind one ear and Blaine caught a quick glimpse of a fair pointed tip. It was clear then that he was not of the race of men, though Blaine could only guess at his heritage. He may have been an elf, but his dark coppery hair, if Blaine remembered Sam’s tales correctly, spoke of being from Rivendell, the Last Homely House, and it had recently been deserted for the Undying Lands. It was always one of Blaine’s favorite stories to hear, though it was filled with sorrow and sadness.

Still, the stranger looked on at him, with eyes bright and thoughtful. His eyes did not wander. It seemed as if he was weighing up each little bit of Blaine’s expression and putting it together to see if it fit. 

‘I have, though I cannot remember the travel there, and I was unconscious on the return. I would not normally forget, but I was young, and the thrum of battle was high in my veins at the time.’

‘You were in a battle?’ The words came not from Blaine, but from Elanor who was standing behind his chair. She quickly ducked her head, her cheeks staining red. Her father watched her carefully from his seat on the long sofa, while her mother’s eyes widened in surprise.

‘The largest in man’s living memory: our most recent battle against the darkness of Mordor. But I was wounded early and carried back to my home once the fighting was over.’ He glanced once at Sam. ‘Do you know of this war, here in the far reaches of the Shire?’

‘I knew of it,’ Sam said. There was only the barest hint of pride in his voice. ‘I was there, though I was trying to climb the hills of that godforsaken place at the time.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I was with Frodo Baggins, the ring bearer.’

Kurt’s eyes widened. ‘Then you are Samwise Gamgee! I thought you looked familiar, though I was not at the feasts during your first stay at Rivendell. I had seen you walking the paths through our home, though I did not think much of you till they told me later you had been instrumental in the winning of the battle. I am proud to make your acquaintance.’ He went to stand again, but then changed his mind. Instead, he dipped his head in respect. 

‘Then you _are_ an elf!’ Blaine said suddenly, as if it had been weighing on his mind the whole time, as well it had.

‘I have been trying to conceal as such,’ he said softly, ‘but yes.’ 

‘And if you are from Rivendell, why are you here? Why are you not in the undying lands with your people? Only the Evenstar remains in Middle-Earth as Sam has told it to me. Have you told me false, cousin?’ He turned to Sam with raised eyebrows. 

‘He spoke true as he knew it,’ the elf spoke. Now that Blaine knew of his background, the beautiful lilt to his voice seemed unmistakeable, though the hobbit had never spoken to an elf in his life. ‘There are no others; and it is with the Lady Arwen that I seek audience. It is for this purpose that I wish to go to Minas Tirith. It is there she lives with the King Elessar, and perhaps she may be able to assist me in living here without my people.’

Each of the adult hobbits in the room sat in silence, examining their thoughts carefully. Elanor was on the verge of crying, though this was attributed to her fondness for heartbreaking stories. At Sam’s feet, young Pippin was the one to speak up.

‘Then why’d they leave you behind, sir?’

‘I was gravely injured from the war, and my wounds were not healing as elves should. They had run out of time, and I was considered a threat to others if they took me on the ship. I respect them for their decision,’ he said, though his face was torn. 

‘You don’t seem injured,’ Sam asked, not unkindly.

The elf was slow to reply, though he moved each of his limbs, first slowly then slightly faster until each muscle in his body was stretched. ‘No, I think I am fully recovered now, though it took much time.’ He settled back into the chair with a grace that was unknown to that piece of furniture. ‘This is why I am trying to reach Minas Tirith. I could not remain behind at Rivendell any longer. It was torture for my mind, and there was little remaining to nourish my body. I would have wasted away to a shell in that place. It is not what it once was, not with the loss of my people.’

He blinked once, a slow movement that Blaine watched carefully. 

‘I can offer you no payment,’ Kurt said softly. ‘Nor am I of any true service, but I will ask nothing more of you than you are willing to give. I am wishing simply for a guide, and if you will consent to do so, I will try to give you council with the Evenstar, so you may ask of her whatever you desire, if it is within both our powers.’

Blaine watched him with careful hobbit eyes, though his heart was thrumming at an unnatural pace. Behind him, Elanor placed a careful hand on his shoulder, though it did nothing to calm him. On the sofa Sam did not watch the elf, but his cousin. 

‘I will take you,’ Blaine said. ‘Are there provisions we can take with us, Sam?’

‘You have free reign of my stores, though Rosie and Elanor will gather packs for you. I have no ponies I can spare, though I can give you coin with which to purchase one from the miller down in the town. He always has many he does not require.’

‘Thank you, Samwise Gamgee.’ Kurt bowed his head once more in respect. 

‘I also give you freedom of our home. You should stay here until the end of the week at least, and set off again refreshed. I am sure the children would love to hear of your adventures, and you can get a good meal from us until you leave.’

The fire in the hearth flickered and cast shadows over the elf’s long lean body. As it flickered over his face, Blaine could see the outline of weariness, though they seemed almost imprinted on his mind than on his skin. 

‘I am anxious to reach my destination, though I also appreciate a place of good rest. I thank you for your hospitality, but I am tired. Is there somewhere I may sleep?’

Rosie stood and led him, stooped inside the hobbit hole, to the spare bedroom.

‘You’ll be okay sharing with Frodo while you’re here, right Blaine?’ Frodo was the eldest of Elanor’s brothers, though younger than her or Blaine. His room was not the largest, but Blaine had stayed there before, when visitors had claimed the guest room and he had arrived too late to travel home.

‘It will do me,’ he said politely.

‘Good.’ Sam stood moving towards the kitchen and the round door out into the front garden. ‘Walk with me for a moment, won’t you?’

Blaine stood and followed him out of the door, though when Elanor tried to follow, Sam hushed her with his hand. They walked through the garden, and Sam stooped to pull an unruly weed out of the strawberry patch. 

‘I am concerned about this journey, Blaine,’ he said after a moment, when he was sure they were far enough from the door to avoid being overheard. ‘You do not know the way to Minas Tirith, and though I didn’t give you away, I don’t want you to go. It’s a long path, no matter which way you go, and you’ve never traveled any of them before.’

‘It is an adventure, Sam! It is what I have always wanted!’

The elder hobbit watched him as he stooped again to pick a strawberry, ripe and fat on its vine. ‘I know. That’s why I’m not saying no. But I wish you weren’t so foolhardy sometimes. You must be careful on the road. Take my maps with you, but care for them as you would a child. They were precious to Mr Frodo and they’re precious to me.’

They talked no more about the adventure Blaine was to go on, though Sam’s eyes were dark with something akin to fear, and very like worry throughout the rest of the night. When Blaine retired to Frodo’s room, he could not help but stare at the ceiling and imagine what he would soon undertake. The presence of the elf in the next room was palpable to him, and the whole affair seemed both impossibly real and entirely made up at the same time. 

When he fell into slumber he hoped against hope he would not wake up and have all of it be only a silly dream.


End file.
